Wales' flagship ‘Paddle out Protest' gains momentum at Broad Haven beach
But as the tourists flock to the beaches and the surfers take to the waves, all too often overlooked is the sheer volume of pollution that continues to pour into its waters. As a result, people are falling ill and marine wildlife is facing one of its toughest challenges in history.
'It's reached the point where enough is enough,' said Lloyd Nelmes, who is aquarium manager and marine project officer at Sea Trust Wales, as well as being a keen surfer.
'Marine life is suffering massively because of the amount of sewage and slurry that's being discharged into the sea, but there have also been many, many recordings of effluent entering the River Cleddau. And as a result, the ammonia is having a devastating impact on absolutely everything.'
At high enough concentration levels, ammonia is toxic to fish and other organisms, and can potentially cause death.
'If all the oxygen is taken from the air, it goes without saying that everything will die, but this is exactly what's happening in our rivers.'
Meanwhile a damning parliamentary report recently labelled the UK's rivers as a dangerous 'chemical cocktail' of sewage, agricultural waste and plastic, with sewage pollution equating to everything that gets flushed down the toilet or washed down the drain and then released into the environment through sewer overflows.
But despite years of investment, sewage and agricultural pollution continues to plague rivers and the ocean with the result that the UK is now ranked last in Europe for its bathing water quality.
Next week Broad Haven will be staging Wales' flagship 'Paddle Out Protest' in conjunction with Surfers Against Sewage's national protest on May 17. The event is being coordinated by Lloyd as well as four other local SAS representatives, namely Ella Staden, Kate Beardsmore, Kate J and Kate Evans who are urging everyone who values the the ocean, lakes and rivers of Pembrokeshire to join them to make a stand for Pembrokeshire.
'A lot of local people have been impacted by sewage overspills, whether that's by getting ill, not being able to do water activities or to take their families to the beach to enjoy the coastline,' Ella told The Herald.
Ella Staden
'But there's also a wider worry that our tourism industry may suffer as a result of unclean waters, as well, of course, the effect it's having on the nature that makes this place such a special and wonderful place to live and visit.
'We're urging every single person who cares about the water to come and join us on May 17, as this is a great opportunity to make it crystal clear to the government that we won't stand it anymore.'
The event begins at midday with a drop-in placard making workshop and creative sessions at Sunshine Italian (recently rebranded as Rwts) on the seafront, which is suitable for all ages and is free to join.
A Beach Clean will take place at 1.30 pm followed by the main event – the Paddle Out Protest – which begins at 2.30 pm.
Sian Richardson, the founder of the global Bluetits movement and advocate for community cold-water bathing will give a short speech, followed by Sue Burton, Pembrokeshire's Marine Special Area of Conservation Officer who will both underline the importance of clean oceans for underwater species, as well as for our own social needs.
A member of the Surfers Against Sewage national team will then lead everyone to paddle or walk out into the ocean – on surfboards, kayaks, bodyboards, SUPs, or to simply get feet wet in the shallows.
'The event is most definitely not just for surfers or cold water bathers but absolutely everyone who cares for the seas and the river that we have here in Pembrokeshire,' continued Ella.
'I've been bathing in the waters of Pembrokeshire ever since I was a child with the result that the coastline is something I've become very passionate about.
'It's important that the community comes together to show its support for a charity that is fighting extremely hard to protect our oceans and make sure our Blue Flag Beaches remain a safe place to surf and bathe.The more people who can join us on May 17 the better.'
After the Paddle Out protest, an after-party at Sunshine Italian (Rwts) will start at 4 pm, with huge discounts for those who joined the protest. Attendees can enjoy live music from 5 pm and a DJ from 6 pm, as well as a barbecue, local drinks and pizza. Special discount rates have kindly been offered by the business in support of the charity and the local water community.
'Surfers Against Sewage,which was founded over 30 years ago, is now much more than just surfers, and about much more than just sewage,' concluded Lloyd.
'It campaigns against all forms of ocean pollutants and puts pressure on governments and MPs to hold water companies to account for the damage they are causing.
'We urge as many people as possible to join us at Broad Haven on May 17 to continue our fight for the future of the seas and the waters around Pembrokeshire.'
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Escape and evasion is at the heart of what the SAS is all about. The regiment often operates behind enemy lines so its men are much more likely to be separated from comrades or captured, and need to know how to evade a larger enemy force. This was the climax of the gruelling SAS selection course that had seen many ejected already, for which I – a black, working-class kid – was one of the few survivors. We returned to the freezing Welsh hills where we'd begun the selection process, to be pushed to the edge of our physical and mental capabilities. We were blindfolded and driven to an unknown mountain and moorland spot, handed a sketch map and told to rendezvous with an 'agent' at a particular location. When we reached the first checkpoint, we would be given another location, a mouthful of bread and cheese, and sent on our way. This process was then to be repeated over and over. 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Then I found a ditch, made a tunnel by pulling branches over myself and had lain there through the day lashed by constant rain. By the evening I was hungry, cold and wet and shivering uncontrollably. My legs and arms had been ripped to shreds by thorns. The greatcoat wrapped around my shoulders was so sodden that I doubted it offered any warmth at all, but nor could I contemplate abandoning what was my only piece of outerwear. Then I heard high shrieking yells. The dogs were near again. The hairs on my arm stood on end, my heart pounded. I knew this wasn't real, yet I had persuaded myself it was. That I was being chased, that I might be tortured or killed if I was captured. I'd figured that if I raised the stakes like that, I'd be less likely to throw in the towel when I was tired or hungry or cold or fed up. The barks grew closer, accompanied by the muffled sounds of men talking as they swarmed through the area, their feet bringing them closer and closer to my hideout. I needed to control my breathing and rein in my fear. That way I would be less likely to give off the pungent scent we produce when frightened and which the dogs would pick up. The voices were more distinct now, I heard the dogs panting. Damn, was this the end? I'd chosen a spot so choked with nettles and rotting mulch I was sure nobody would stop to investigate it, but what if I'd made some stupid error that led them to me? My mind cycled through all the possible options. They were just metres away. Twigs snapped, grass tore. My heart started to thump, so I turned my attention to my breathing again. Please, I thought, don't let me be captured. Then the sounds grew more distant, before disappearing. They were somebody else's problem now. A few minutes passed, I dared a glance through the thatch of plants. Night was falling. It was time to move. One, then two, then three and four days and nights went by. It was the last day of this stage. The end was in sight, though we knew that in a sense our suffering had just begun. If we made it through, ahead were countless hours 'in the bag' – meaning the bags placed over our heads before an interrogation process that would test us to the limit and maybe beyond. I'd never felt so feeble or alone. I wasn't sure if I was ready for this. It was a daunting prospect. I knew they'd do everything to break my mind. If they break your body, you can almost always find a way back. If they break your mind you risk being lost for ever. I was contemplating this as I walked in the dark through ragged woodland. I thought I spotted a face leering at me through foliage. There was someone there, a man with wild eyes and sunken cheeks, his skin almost black with dirt. The face broke into a crooked smile. It was Sammy, one of the oddballs on the course, a Marine in his mid-30s – towards the upper age limit – trying to get into the SBS, the Special Boat Squadron. We'd joked that he looked like Krusty the Clown from The Simpsons. He still did, though only if Krusty had spent the best part of a week hiding in a filthy trench while packs of dogs hunted him. I giggled at the thought, then realised I probably looked just as repellent. He came towards me and asked: 'Did you see that farm over there?' 'Yes,' I said. 'What have you had to eat?' 'Hardly anything, just a few roots.' Sammy had an idea: 'Let's go see what food we can find.' He had a point. We didn't know what exactly we were going to face while being interrogated but it stood to reason we'd need as much energy for it as we could muster. He went off to investigate and rushed back a minute or two later with a triumphant smile. Good, he's found some food, I thought. My mind ran away with me; a loaf of bread perhaps, or even brown bananas. I wasn't picky. 'Look at this,' he whispered, brandishing a plastic bottle in my face. Salad cream. I examined the label. 'It's three months out of date. No way am I eating that. I don't want to get ill.' 'Come on, have some!' he insisted. As I shook my head, he picked up a stick and started jabbing it into the bottle, bringing it up coated with thick gobbets of the salad cream. 'This is lovely.' Sammy and I stuck together, right up to when we were stopped by masked men who grabbed us, planted bags on our heads and shoved us on to the back of a truck of horse manure. As more and more candidates were picked up, they were hoisted on to the truck, thrown carelessly so they landed painfully on the blokes below. The truck rattled, our nostrils filled with the stink of excrement and the bodies of men who'd spent days living in the wild. I reminded myself of the instructions we'd been given about what we were allowed to reveal. Name, rank, number. Nothing else. And if we signed any piece of paper put in front of us we'd fail the course immediately. Straightforward enough, you'd think, but when you're exhausted and disorientated and on the wrong end of the tricks of experienced interrogators, it's anything but. After a while we were bundled off the truck and led to the interrogation centre, where our blindfolds were removed. It was dark and I could see very little. But I could instantly feel a change in the air temperature. For the first time in a week, I was warm. Instantly I began to feel drowsy, almost swaying on my feet. Perhaps I dozed while standing there, waiting for my turn, perhaps I didn't; I cannot be sure. I do remember being led into an even warmer office and the way the interrogator deliberately started talking to me in a soothing Canadian accent. I tried to focus but everything in my mind seemed fogged. I began to drift off. I was going deeper into sleep. Then his voice broke into my consciousness again. 'Thank you for telling me about your wife and kid.' I came to with a start. Had I? No, this is a trick. I turned to the man sitting beside him, trying to work out whether I'd really given this information away. This didn't help because he appeared to have turned as silent as Mickey Mouse. The interview ended and I was hauled out, bewildered and not confident I hadn't betrayed myself. I'd learn later that an officer on the course had been persuaded to put his signature on a document. Once he'd crossed that line, he started cheerfully signing paper after paper. That was the end of him. When we weren't being interrogated, we were forced to sit blindfolded in a stress position, cross-legged, back upright, with our hands on our heads. If at any point you slumped, or fell asleep, a guard would be on you in seconds, slapping you to bring you back up. Before long, every limb was filled with excruciating pain, our discomfort made worse by strobe lights flashing in our eyes and white noise blasting in our ears. Occasionally a cup of water would be brought to our lips to sip. We had to p*** where we sat. Sometimes they strode over and started beating us. The worst was a guy who seemed to enjoy it. Finally, I was brought into an interview room, where they told me to strip naked. There was a bloke I'd seen before and a new inquisitor, a good-looking blonde woman. I couldn't help but notice how tight her black top was. They made me open my legs, touch my toes, pull my butt cheeks apart. It was nasty, humiliating, though nothing I couldn't cope with. Then the interrogation began. To begin with it was standard good cop, bad cop, switching between threatening me and offering hot food and a shower if I signed the piece of paper they slid across the table to me. I imagined standing beneath a cascade of warming water that soothed my aching limbs and washed off the dirt that encrusted every inch of my skin. My hand twitched. My God, it was tempting. It couldn't hurt, could it? With an effort I dragged my mind back to the room and shook my head. 'No,' I said, smiling. My sense of reality felt frayed. But I had one thing to hold on to. It would soon be over. I knew that in July it got light at about 4am. I also knew the interrogation phase usually finished at around 11am. And that would be it, I'd have done it. I was sure I'd seen a glow of light through my blindfold and that an entire rotation had passed since then. This was the last block of four hours I needed to survive. The woman leaned across the table. Something in her face changed, her eyes filled with malice. She pointed to my penis. 'Pull your foreskin back.' I did what I was told. 'Now pull it forward.' I obeyed. She repeated the instructions. Baffled, I carried on. Then she sneered: 'Are you w****** over me, you disgusting n*****?' Right, I thought, this is the game, is it? To be honest there was no word she could say that I hadn't heard as a black kid growing up on a council estate in Stoke-on-Trent. Her insults took a more demeaning turn. Then, somehow, as she edged that bit closer to me, and I saw her chest in my eyeline and smelled her perfume, I imagined her naked. It was just for a fleeting second, but it was enough. Blood rushed to my penis; it jerked upwards. Oh, God. She noticed immediately and did her best to control her reaction. A smile flashed across her face, then after a brief struggle, she laughed. And I did too. It was all so ridiculous. And yet it could mean me failing the course, even at this late stage. We'd been told we had to take it all seriously. The idea that this might be the reason I got chucked off felt cosmically unfair. And yet, I wondered, maybe it was a weakness in me they'd managed to find. That's what they were here to do. Panic mounted in me. As I contemplated this, she managed to master herself. 'Get that black b****** the f*** out of here!' I was blindfolded, dragged out and thrown on to concrete by a man screaming obscenities in my ear. I heard the hiss of a hose and suddenly a high pressure jet of icy water slammed into me. The jet was so strong it lifted my blindfold and to my horror I saw it was still dark. I'd convinced myself it was about 8am but it was still the dead of night. My miscalculation devastated me. There were still hours to go. The finishing line was in sight but I was so tired, so addled, I came closer in those moments to quitting than at any other point of the course. I saw no way I could go on. It was precisely at that moment I heard one of our guys being pulled past me, sobbing like a baby. I heard some shuffling and pushing, then sensed that whoever he was had been placed in the stress position. He's in a worse state than me, I thought. I wonder who it is? That's when I got an unmistakeable whiff of salad cream. It could only be Sammy. I thought of his funny sad face, his clown's tuft of filthy hair. For the second time in 30 minutes I found myself giggling. Somehow, this was exactly what I needed. No matter how bad I was having it, it was nothing compared to what he was going through. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get me through the last stretch of the ordeal. And then it really was over. Just a handful of us had passed. We were told the news in a cold hangar in the same flat, emotionless way all information had been delivered to us over the past weeks. There were no congratulations, no pats on the back. I looked around at the handful of other soldiers, including, I was pleased to see, Sammy, who'd made it. Every single one of them looked crazy, their eyes enormous and spaced-out, their cheeks hollow. These defeated, wasted blokes were unrecognisable from the strong, healthy specimens who'd started the course. And yet they were the ones who had passed. I was too broken to react immediately. It was only later that I felt my spirits soar as, in front of the clock tower at the regiment's headquarters in Hereford, we were given the sand-coloured berets we'd worked so hard for. I'd made it. The black working-class kid was in the SAS, one of the first British-born black men to join. It was a dream come true.
